A Chance to Be Brave
by Drag0nst0rm
Summary: Palmer tells everyone who asks that he doesn't remember how he died. That's . . . almost true. (Lost Ones AU, post The Lost Ones)


3.

He told everyone who asked that he didn't remember what had happened, which was true, but it wasn't the whole truth. It was the sort of truth that the police, who didn't really want to talk to him anyway, were willing to accept, but that his mother saw through in an instant.

Palmer remembered a knife and a face that he couldn't remember the details of, but that he was sure had been terrible. He remembered blank incomprehension followed by a sudden spark of understanding and a fumbling for his wallet that hadn't been quick enough.

He remembered quite a lot, really, just not enough to actually be useful. Enough to be terrified, but not enough to have the source of his terror arrested, if they would even take his word for it in the first place.

That was what he remembered at first. When his mother demanded it, hands on her hips, and he was wrapped up in blankets, safe on the couch. When he had the buzz of fresh blood to take the edge of the fear because his mother was a very practical woman, who wasn't going to be squeamish when her son needed something.

Later, when the terror built, and he realized that safety was an illusion and that even if he did remember, it wouldn't actually matter, all he really remembered was that he wished it had been defiance, and not panic induced stupidity, that had caused his slowness, because the latter wasn't something he was proud to have died for.

* * *

2.

The coroner was doing it wrong. That was the first vague thought he had. It was a tugging thought that pulled him away from - something. He wasn't in medical school yet - wasn't even in premed, actually, that wouldn't start until this autumn - but he was pretty sure an autopsy wasn't supposed to work like this.

The man's hands were trembling, and he was swaying a little, which might explain why he'd thought to begin where he had, but still.

Although that swaying was getting a bit alarming.

"Doctor, are you alright?"

The doctor's motions got a bit more frantic, but he didn't stop.

"Shouldn't you be giving me some blood so we can talk better?" That was the procedure for murder victims, he was fairly sure. And if they already knew who had killed him, the body should have been salted. Either way, the man was doing it wrong.

And had been for quite some time, he realized with horror. What was he doing? Those cuts were all wrong. Had he even determined time of death?

The man lurched for a bottle. Palmer snatched it away from him. The man showed the first sign of seeing him when he tried to snatch it back. Palmer hit him on the head with the bottle.

The man collapsed to the floor. Palmer stared at the bottle in horror.

"Oh, no. Oh, no."

Thankfully, the man was still breathing, at least. Palmer grabbed some blood from the cabinets so that people could see him and ran to get help.

In hindsight, running up to an officer and saying, "I didn't mean to hit him so hard, but he was doing my autopsy wrong, and now he won't wake up," probably wasn't the best way to handle things.

* * *

4.

If he'd been in a big city, that would probably have been the end of it. As it was, he lived in a small town, the police officer was one of only four, and he was far too afraid of Palmer's mother to just go salting her son.

Palmer was just glad that it was the officer who had to call his mother and not him, because he wasn't at all sure how he was going to explain this.

It wasn't until she showed up that he realized he was still holding the bottle of whiskey. He dropped it hurriedly.

His mother ignored the bottle rolling sadly away and just stood there a moment examining her son. Her eyes were red, and her face was pale, but it only took a moment for her to take a deep breath, nod briskly, and say, "Now, Officer, what's this I hear about someone mucking up my son's autopsy?"

The officer started spluttering a response. Palmer relaxed. No one had ever defeated his mother in an argument, especially when she got that look on her face.

* * *

7.

"I will sue you for everything I can, and I will find some way to drag this case all the way to the Supreme Court, and win or lose, I will see to it that your name is personally dragged through the mud by the end of it," his mother growled. "My son has better scores than half the idiots you've accepted, and you will let him in, so help me, and if you don't believe me, I'll give you the number of someone you can call to prove I don't make idle threats."

The admissions officer gulped, looked between the two of them hurriedly, and made a jerky movement that might have been a nod.

Palmer smiled at him a bit apologetically and shuffled his feet. It was a bit embarrassing to have to trail behind his mother as she stormed out of the office, but it was kind of breathtaking too. Her protective rage filled every room she walked into and just breathing it in made him feel safe.

* * *

5.

"Get him registered, and the autopsy can be swept under the rug," she demanded.

"Ma'am - "

"You know me," she said flatly. "You know I don't make idle threats. You learned that ten years ago when you tried to steal the pies off my window and don't think I've forgotten."

He gulped. "But a ghost, in town - "

"You know him too," she snapped. "You know him, and you know he couldn't harm a flea. Besides, he won't be staying in town. My boy's going to college," and her voice still had the same pride in it as when he'd gotten the acceptance letter.

The officer gaped. Palmer did too.

"He's dead," the officer protested.

"He was accepted," she countered smugly. "And who says they ever have to know?"

* * *

6.

Instead of buying him a meal plan, Palmer's mother sent him care packages of salt-free food to keep her ghost boy strong.

He told his roommate he had allergies. And the next year's roommate. And the next.

None of them were ever exactly friends with the stammering boy with his foot in his mouth who seemed to spend all night studying, but none of them exactly disliked him either. They didn't care enough about him one way or another to notice the little things that didn't quite add up.

He was on a diet, he said nervously, that was why he didn't eat the chips, they were so fattening - not that they were having any effect on his roommate, obviously -

And they rolled their eyes and told him to shut up.

He didn't like scary movies, he said, when he bowed out of the horror movie marathon.

They reminded him that his line of work involved dealing with ghosts rather a lot and suggested he grow a spine.

He had gotten lucky, he said, when he fell down three flights of stairs and there wasn't a mark on him.

Luck would have been not falling in the first place, one of them pointed out, and that was that.

* * *

9.

Getting a job had been hard, even harder than he expected, but he smiled at Dr. Mallard and tried not to get too badly tripped up.

When he got the job, he called his mother, who announced she always knew he could do it.

"Congratulations, my boy," Dr. Mallard said. "Do you need any help finding accommodations?"

"I've got a place," he assured him.

* * *

8.

"This is a dump," his mother said flatly.

Palmer shrugged. "It's not exactly a haunted mansion," he said, smiling weakly, "but it's all they'll rent to a ghost."

"We could rent a place in my name," she suggested.

Palmer shook his head. "I don't want your help. No! I didn't mean - Not like that. It's just," he took a deep breath, "I want to do this. Really do this. And that means . . . "

"Doing some things on your own," she conceded. She rapped his chest firmly. "I am still sending you food. I don't trust manufacturers when they say things are salt free. There was that recall just last year, and what good will a recall do after you've already eaten it, I ask you?"

Palmer agreed and tried not to notice that while his mother's ire was as fierce as ever, the form behind it had started to get a bit frail.

* * *

10.

Palmer was pretty sure Gibbs hated him, and he wasn't sure if it was because he was a ghost or because he was Palmer. He also wasn't sure which would be worse.

"Gibbs likes you fine, my boy," Dr. Mallard assured him. "He convinced the director to give you this chance, you know."

If the death glares Gibbs kept sending him were any indication, Gibbs was regretting that.

"It's just your general . . . Palmerishness," Tony said, waving a hand. "It's nothing personal. He's like that with most people."

Those two statements seemed to be at least a little contradictory, and Palmer couldn't help but slump a little. Tony patted him on the shoulder.

"Cheer up. Have some chocolate."

"I can't," he said gloomily. "Salt."

"Salt-free, ghost approved," Tony assured him. "I should know." He handed Palmer a bar of it before Palmer could process that.

"You're a ghost?" Palmer yelped as Tony strolled out of autopsy.

"There's no need to announce it to the whole building," Dr. Mallard scolded. "Tim and Kate are as well, and goodness knows I'm not far off."

"You don't have to be dead to work here, but it helps, huh?" Palmer said weakly.

Dr. Mallard's lips twitched. "That's certainly one way to put it, my boy, although the more traditional phrasing holds true as well. Now if you could get me a clean tray, please . . . "

* * *

11.

The day after Dr. Mallard's mother died, Palmer stopped by to see how he was doing.

"I knew it was coming, of course, but the house still seems very empty without her." Dr. Mallard looked very old suddenly, and Palmer didn't feel good about leaving him here alone.

"Would you like some company?" he offered.

"That would be lovely, my boy, thank you."

By the time Ducky stopped talking and dozed off, it hardly seemed worth it to call a cab to get home. Palmer stayed and tried to make breakfast instead.

Which was a complete disaster, he had to admit, but it made Dr. Mallard laugh, so he wasn't a complete failure.

* * *

12.

Dr. Mallard still seemed off when he came back to work, so Palmer invited him over to dinner at his place. The doctor seemed very glad of the invitation, right up until they actually arrived at his apartment building.

"Oh, dear."

Palmer winced. "If you'd rather, we could out somewhere, Doctor. I know it's not what you're used to, but there are a couple of brothers who get blood from the rats, so at least that problem's going down . . . "

"Surely we pay you better than this," Dr. Mallard said in disbelief.

"Not everyone's comfortable talking to dead people," Palmer reminded him. "It's fine. I like it here."

Dr. Mallard looked at him skeptically. In hindsight, the optimistic tone had been a bit overly cheery, even to his own ears.

* * *

13.

Dr. Mallard was old and lonely, and, quite frankly, everyone was starting to get concerned at the idea of his living alone.

Palmer was over for supper so much and stayed so late that surely it only made sense to make the arrangement permanent and save money on the rent.

At least, that was how it was presented to Palmer, and although he missed some of his neighbors, his mother was glad her son was free of the rats.

* * *

14.

Ghosts didn't fall in love. They might have been in love when they died, and if someone they loved died with them, they might still love them, but they didn't fall in love. They were too obsessed with whatever had made them stick around for that.

Palmer wasn't entirely sure why he had stuck around, but he had definitely fallen in love with Breena, a lovely ghost who worked at a funeral home.

It wasn't legal for them to get married in the United States, but it was in Mexico, and even Gibbs got a bit soft around the eyes when they announced their plans.

* * *

15.

The little girl couldn't have been more than two years old. She'd wandered away from the crime scene where her father had been killed.

Palmer was the one who found her wandering around, calling for her daddy. He was also the one who found her body underneath the bush.

She was too young to understand what had happened or even why she'd stuck around.

Any other team would have salted her as soon as they realized just how wispy her form was.

But her tiny hands clutched at Palmer's essence so tightly, and her eyes had been so impossibly large when she looked up at him, lip trembling.

Palmer looked up guiltily when Dr. Mallard caught him holding her in the back of the van, giving her blood from the spritzer like it was an afternoon snack.

"She said her name's Tori, and I think it's short for Victoria," he blurted out before Dr. Mallard could react.

Victoria Mallard had been the name of Dr. Mallard's mother. His eyes softened. "Ah. Well, then. If Breena has no objection, perhaps you could adopt."

It wouldn't be official, of course, but it was close enough, and this time he definitely wasn't imagining the softness in Gibbs' eyes.

Palmer bounced her in his arms as they waited for the crime scene to be wrapped up. "That's your Uncle Tony, and your Uncle McGee, and your Aunt Bishop," he told her. "And that's Gibbs. He's scary, but he likes us anyway. Probably. And someday your Aunt Ziva will come back, and you can meet her."

Tori pointed her finger imperiously at Dr. Mallard.

"That's your Grandducky," he told her, and the little girl giggled, high, bright, and clear.

Dr. Mallard's smile was nearly as bright.

* * *

1.

It hurt, it hurt so much, and he was scared. He wished he was already a doctor. If he was a doctor, maybe he could fix this.

But right now it just hurt, hurt so much, and he had to hold on, but he couldn't, he couldn't -

He was going to college. He had been accepted into a very good university, and his mother had been so proud. And after that, after that -

He wasn't even sure what he had wanted, but he knew it hadn't been this. It hadn't been to die because he'd been too panicked to think straight. He'd wanted to be braver than this. Better than this.

He'd wanted -

* * *

16.

The suspect had gotten away. He'd been smart enough to throw a pot of salt at Palmer when he'd stupidly run after him, and he'd gotten away because Palmer had lost him when he'd ducked to avoid the salt.

"What did he look like?" Gibbs demanded, and Palmer -

Palmer was still shaking from the near exorcism, but he stuttered out the description he'd been repeating in his head like a mantra. It was good enough for a sketch. Good enough to find the suspect and make the arrest.

Palmer looked at him when he was in cuffs and thought, _knife._

 _Knife and panic and a wallet falling from trembling hands -_

He had been brave, this time. He had remembered.

He hurried to pick up the heavier equipment because Dr. Mallard really shouldn't be doing that at his age, and he wondered, a little hysterically, what on earth he was going to tell the rest of his family when he got home, and even worse, what he was going to tell his mother.

 _You could leave now_ , a small part of him suggested, but the rest of him whispered, _Not yet._


End file.
